


The Hanged Man & The Devil

by Davechicken



Series: Kylux - Dom Hux, sub Kylo [2]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: BDSM, Bottom!kylo, Caning, M/M, Suspension, Top!hux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 15:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7851520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HANGED MAN (Suspension, restriction, letting go, sacrifice)<br/>DEVIL (Bondage, addiction, sexuality, materialism)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hanged Man & The Devil

Kylo needs this. He knows he does, which is why he’ll always come back for more. A lifetime spent kneeling before false Masters, spent in frustrated obeisance, and the real answer to his hunger had been right before his eyes for _years_. Years. Years in which this freedom could have been his, had he been smart enough to bend the knee.

In a way, he still doesn’t begrudge his previous leash-holders. Without them, he wouldn’t have ended up here, now. He’d maybe have never met the man capable of making all the aching, gnawing need _go_. They’d both insisted they knew how to help him: one, through control and denial; the other, through violence and excess. _Neither_ had worked, and both had left him strung out, raw, and screaming.

Kylo had never wanted to be _that thing_. The mud-brown non-person his… _uncle_ had been for as long as the nephew had been alive. He’d seen the sadness and worry and loneliness in the man’s heart - hidden most of the time behind a calm, caring face - and the boy had been afraid of being so alone. A man to save everyone, but unable to save himself.

No. Jedi was not for him. The mantras of calm and removal of self were not what his tongue was created for, they required vocal chords he simply did not possess. Any attempt to fit in was worse than him trying to speak Huttese, and twice as painful. His self had railed within the mummifying rules, roles and rotes… and he’d broken almost in half in an attempt to fit.

He’d thought, though, that Snoke… 

But again: No. Closer, perhaps.., or at least he’d tried to pretend as much when he realised he’d run to the end of his tether, and there was nowhere else left to turn. He’d shirked one yoke for ‘freedom’, and found that ‘freedom’ was just another way to hang.

Until. 

Until _Hux._

Kylo kneels, and the backs of his wrists touch the bend of his knees. His ass rests between his ankles, and he folds himself as small as he can, hugging the ground with his core. It is important to assume the correct posture, to show that he is a good boy. To show that he pays attention, listens, learns.

Hux’s lessons stick with him, where Luke’s and Snoke’s never could. He does not need to _think_ to obey **him.**

He remembers. His body falls into position easily, the deference as keen to his body as air. The slight grind of his shoulderblades beneath the skin as he keeps his back up straight and his posture level and proud. Sunk low as he is, there’s still no denying he’s a _tall_ man, but the height difference when he genuflects restores the balance to the universe. His eyes close, letting the day dance diffusely through the lids, and he can feel the swell of his lips pursed together, the invisible chain coiled around his spine, pulling him tall, but forcing his head low.

He needs this.

Naked, with the knowledge of his skin touching skin. The way it clings together, like hands refusing to part. The way the slight, artificial air-hum drags all across the fine hairs on his lower arms, and the slick of shiver-cold when the temperature wavers low on his unmoving form.

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

He is not sure how long he waits, but he knows Hux will pay attention when it is _time_. That Hux will help him, if he deserves it.

His Master can be cruel, can be harsh, but he’s never unjust. His punishments redeem true wrongs, and his praise graces true goods. The dark thunder in the Knight fights to be heard, the fear-anger-pain-worry-terror-guilt-violence crescendoing to make his ears deaf. 

Kylo can feel the _thing_ inside of him. He doesn’t know what to call it, but he knows it’s been there for as long as he can remember. It might even _be_ **‘him’** , but how could he tell? It comes and goes like the seasons do, or the planets’ days, or the tides’ swells. It’s been getting louder, and that’s why he’s here. Why he came home and stripped himself (precisely, the same order as ever, the clothing hung, the ritual begun), and dropped into position, waiting. 

He’s learned that if he does this, when he’s in need, he gets what he’s lacking sooner than if he uses his old methods. Those hadn’t been _right,_ but they had helped when nothing else would. A scream and a red tongue of light licking over inanimate sparks. A way to siphon off some of the excess energy, like a cloud sparking electric to earth. 

Hux hated those outbursts. Kylo had kept them up, even when he found out. _Especially_ when he found out. It was his nature to push back, to see how far he could get. (To see if he could _run_.) 

But now, now he’d learned that if the insanity wasn’t too strong, he could come, like this, and his body would beg for what his heart and mind (and groin) wanted for him. What he needed.

 _Hux_.

He can’t ask aloud, but he asks with his body, instead. His mind is already owned, already known. His tongue is less loud than this act of submission ever could be.

_Help me. Help me. Love me._

His shoulders hunch (forgetting form) as a leathered hand slides a finger over his lips, pulling the lower from his teeth. Examining the depths of his mouth, tutting at the unhappy grin inside of dentine points, assessed like the beast he is. Kylo fights the urge to growl, shaking through the natural response to _flinch_ and forcing himself to **be** , and…

A slap, to his cheek. It’s sharp, like curtains yanked wide to the scream of sun. A laugh bubbles up, and then his eyes make the mistake of meeting Hux’s.

 _Not obedient enough_.

_He’s bad._

Fingers in his hair, and he’s almost lifted from the ground, magnetised to the grip, his hands staying low as he’s stretched like a chain shook to hang down.

“You’re worthless, you know,” Hux tells him.  


Kylo needs him to. That’s the point. “Yes,” he replies. He is.

“Can’t last two days without me, can you?”  


“No, Sir.”  


(He lasted decades, but the living was hardly worth the name.)

“You think you’re worth the effort? Just because you’re good at party tricks?”  


_Yes. No. Yes. No. Both._ Kylo is caught between the voice that whispers he is **scum** , and the voice that yells he is _Darth Vader’s scion_. Both are his, and not-his, and he has come to understand the world is like this.

Not the Good-Evil, Light-Dark of his uncle, or even the Leader. Something more complicated and beautiful than either of them could conceive. 

Kylo is both more trouble than he is worth, a liability, a menace, and a danger to himself and others… and the strongest Force-user of the age. He’s worthless, and more worthy than words could frame. 

And in Hux, _this is fine_. 

“Please,” he whispers, instead, and casts his eyes lovingly up. Hux knows how to make the shaking foundations stand still. Knows how to pull Kylo back into that place, the one where everything is possible. The place where he can be both strong and weak.  


He _needs_ him. Craves him like a drug. His body goes into shock if it’s too long without a hit, starts to shut down and fall apart. An offering of his throat, a knowledge that this… this is for Hux, too. This is not just for him, because why would Hux do that?

He doesn’t control him for his skill on the battlefield alone. Snoke had had that, and even his loyalty, despite not deserving it one bit. Hux does this because Hux needs this, too. Hux needs to know he can control someone as powerful as Kylo, needs the affirmation that his obsession and obedience gives. It’s a circle, a tidal-locked orbit, and his push and pull defines the other as much as he is defined by him.

“ _Pathetic_ ,” Hux says, and he speaks to himself as much to Kylo.  


(He knows. Without walking inside his head. He _knows_. And the secret will go with him to the grave. _Beyond_.) 

Up he’s moved, hands that urge even though a look would be enough. The contact is electric and reassuring, and Kylo feels the start of the stampede inside of him. The early stragglers sensing the predator, their legs stamping and scraping a _soon_ inside his chest.

The gag is first. A ball, one he can dribble and scream through, but wordless and wet. He opens up wide and lets his tongue be taken from him, not fighting one bit. The mask, next, taking sight and eye-contact. Kylo doesn’t _need_ it to see, but the darkness is another layer, another blanket that wraps him tight and whispers promises of safety. 

His arms are pulled behind his back, and binders clink into place. He would have to dislocate his shoulders to do anything with his arms, and he has no desire to do that. Forwards, _falling_ , and the keeping out of Hux’s head means the sudden tilt of up makes him giddy, and his momentum only halts because something clipped to the cuffs jars his arms up away from his ass. His shoulders nearly _do_ dislocate, and the scream of agony is pure and true.

Oh, it hurts. It hurts like electricity, coursing through his veins. His feet scrabble, but then there’s something clicking around one ankle, and the second. Kylo panics for a moment at the implication, then what upright **is** _changes_ again, and he’s aware that he’s flipped to face the floor, suspended by points at each ankle and between his wrists. More binders cuff his upper arms, and then the pressure spreads again.

Good. Because he’d worried, briefly, that his wrists would splinter under the weight, or his shoulders truly prise out of his sockets. The pressure is unusual, nothing like standing, and there’s empty space between him and the floor.

Empty space. Nothingness. 

It feels… it feels like… like flying.

Kylo tries to talk before he remembers the gag has stopped him, then turns his face to where he _feels_ the other man is. Skipping. Skipping like a broken holo. That’s what the world is like, now. Only the holo - if it kept moving - promised untold secrets, and Kylo _needs to hear them_.

 **Needs to**. A song that swells through the opening chords, a rising tide of _soon,_ and he **needs it, needs it, needs it.**

“You’d go mad without me. Destroy the universe. Wouldn’t you?”  


_Yes. No. I already did. I still will._

“You selfish little brat.”  


The first blow - a line: a rank of soldiers, a bar drawn between factors and product, a mark between _before_ and **now** … it crashes down on his upper thighs and blazes hot bliss into him. No warm up, but he doesn’t want it, or he wouldn’t have come to supplicate before him.

He needs _this_.

Sting after sting of the switch coming down, his tender skin welted red and reaching up for mercy. Blood vessels that cry out at the abuse, and he’s swayed in the cradle of his restraints after every impact. Sharp. Sharp. Sharp. Like the teeth of justice assizing and incising. The verdict is red like the debts he owes, and he sobs in open relief at the intensity of it.

He needs this. He needs _him_. He needs the push-pull, the give-take, the control-release. He needs, and so does Hux: a cruelty put in them by nature or nurture, and goaded together where no one else sees.

Perhaps Kylo would not have needed this, once. Or - no - _Kylo_ always would, but the boy before… who knew. And Hux… his days of summers in lakes and up trees had been stillborn, instead an afterbirth pushed out of an autumn of harvesting scythes and other tools, a winter of salt-blood reserves plundered and snows made red with lust.

Kylo needs this, and the swelling **fire** in him races up to meet Hux in the middle. One crack - and he knows - he knows - feels the press of Hux against his mind: no Force, but his strength of will… and it _clicks_ inside as he goes 

**d**

**o**

**w**

**n.**

Down. Dark. Pain. Light. Love. Strength. Weakness. _Force_. 

Bonds that his lover would never see, a promise through the ages that _they were for each other, they were, and Kylo knew it to his core…_ and after that he has no idea where ‘he’ ended. He has no idea that he even ‘is’. It was that moment of surrender when you were no longer an entity, or you were… but the distinction of not-you no longer applied.

Hux. Bright. Victorious. Proud. Sure. **Infinitely** beautiful, and too hot and sharp to touch. Kylo lets him all the way in, and reaches out with his heart to say with feeling what he never could hope to convey with his words.

He trusts him. He trusts him with everything. He trusts him enough to _ask_ for this, and he gives him all of himself in return.

The blood from the sharpest cuts is dabbed clean, and Kylo is dimly aware of Hux slipping fingers into him. It’s a penetration, but Hux is already deeper than his body could ever go. Into him, and he feels the keen jubilation as his Master claims him all over again. Feels the written promise inside of him, and hangs there until his legs are lowered. 

Arms support his chest, then the cuffs are gone and Hux - thankfully - holds his boneless weight. He’s pulled to the bed, and he purrs at the sting in his ass, feeling no pain, not now. He’s aware pain has happened, but he can’t connect with it, and won’t for some time.

Fingers through his hair, and the words are kinder, now. Words that he only gets when he’s really been good for him.

Words that tell him he’s safe, he’s loved, he’s wanted, he’s precious. Words that thank him for his gift, and he fights the gag to reply.

It’s slipped off, and there are supposed to be words in with the noise he makes, but they’re for other vocal chords, right now.

Hux understands anyway. He kisses his lips and smiles from too-close up. 

“Better?”  


Kylo nods. He tries to ask if Hux feels it, too, but mostly just makes a ? sound.

His Master nods. “Thank you,” he says, again.

Kylo cuddles in close, and floats. 

He needs this… he needs _him_.


End file.
